—Gotthold E. Lessing
Liliy was missing and I was out in the woods looking for her before an approaching rainstorm.
I walked for about fifteen minutes just following the track until it curved up an embankment and continued on clay ground through a small birch woods. The ground there was covered with decaying leaves and it was impossible to discern any footprints.
I came out on the other side of the woods at a ridge line that afforded a breathtaking view of the city in the far distance, but there, the track ended.
I walked along the ridge hoping the footpath might begin again but no luck. I continued ahead regardless, walking in the same direction, meandering according to the natural topography and letting the land take me where it wanted to go.
I eventually ended up at the barb-wired fence of a neighboring farm that was less than inviting. Nailed to several fence posts were painted signs shouting PRIVATE PROPERTY and NO TRESSPASSING.
I had no doubt the owner would enforce such warnings with a pointed shotgun. So I turned back toward the farmhouse and made it back just as huge raindrops like black cherries began splattering the dry wooden verandah of the house.
“Nothing unusual here,” Frank, her father, sighed morosely as I entered the house and removed my coat. “Anything turn up outside?”
“I noticed Lily’s footprints around her car and followed them. The path led through a field and woods to a farm and ended there.”
Frank motioned me to a kitchen chair and set out a steaming mug of coffee for me. He then sat down on the opposite chair.
“You ended up at the Watkin’s farm. Old Bill died last year and his son owns the place now. He’s a surly type and don’t take kindly to strangers. I wouldn’t want to be hunting and poaching game on his land.”
“I got that impression,” I replied, “those signs posted are pretty menacing.”
“Ain’t nothing compared to Nate’s anger. That kid was like some feral critter that’d bite you to look at you. Best you stay well away from that spread.”
I nodded, sipping my coffee and looking round the room. The farmhouse was cozy and well kept. Frank might be a little nutty in his views, but he obviously cared for Lily and provided as best he could for her.
“You’re welcome to crash here tonight and we can continue searching in the morning if you feel up to it.”
I nodded my assent and Frank got up, added a log to the potbelly stove and began preparing supper.
The next morning Frank was up early and had already prepared a plan. He intended to go into Alton, a nearby town and see if Lily had met up with some friends who lived there. If he had no luck, he’d contact the police and involve The Enterprise, a local paper.
I wanted to continue my foot search in the immediate area.
I watched Frank’s pick up as it bounced down the rutted laneway leading back to the service road and realized with dismay that the farm was really off the beaten path. It’s conceivable that Lily might have walked to Alton but according to the map Frank gave me, the town was six miles away. It made no sense when she could have easily driven there.
Lily and I had a spare key to both our cars, so on a hunch, I unlocked the Honda and turned the key in the ignition. The car started right up. No mechanical problems here.
I spread out the map of the local area and drew a circle with a five-mile radius—if Lily intended to walk any further she would surely have taken her car.
The Ridgeline curved around most of the circle leaving only the town of Alton and the Watkin’s farm as the only logical destinations. Since Frank had headed into town that left me with the only other possible destination—facing down the barrel of Nate Watkin’s shotgun.
I could sense Lily was in danger and could picture her face white with fear. I had no intention of sneaking onto the Watkin’s property and getting sprayed with buckshot, so I got into my car resolved to drive to the Watkin’s farm and knock on Nate’s front door.
As I pulled up to the laneway leading to Nate’s farmhouse my courage again deserted me. There were the same painted NO TRESPASSER warning signs, and in front of the farmhouse a Confederate flag fluttered in the breeze.
Knocking politely on the front door seemed only marginally better than taking my chances skirting the barbed wire fence, but I was worried sick about Lily and surly or not, Nate was the nearest neighbour.
I parked near the front door but before I could exit the car two menacing German shepherd dogs surrounded the vehicle. I sat helplessly watching them bare their teeth and bark incessantly.
Suddenly, a whistle sounded and the two dogs lay down on the ground and went silent. A morose young man in his early twenties emerged from the barn and walked toward me. He stopped about ten feet from the car and called out, “What’s your business?”
“I’m from the Warner farm. Your neighbour, Lily Warner has gone missing. I’m her fiancé and her father and I are canvassing the area trying to see if anyone saw her or knows her whereabouts.”
The young man shook his head. “She didn’t come here—at least not down this laneway. If she snuck in the other way, I don’t know nothin’ about that—but my dogs are loose to keep hunters away.”
I shuddered at the thought of Lily being mauled by the dogs.
“Do you mind if I take a look around your property? Lily might have gotten turned around and lost in the night or in yesterday’s storm.”
“I do mind. This here’s private property and if she trespassed that’s her fault. There’s plenty of signs. But I’ll take my ATV out later and drive round and check. Leave your number with me and if she turns up, I’ll give you a shout—but I’m hoping I don’t have to do that.”
He looked at his dogs and then back at me.
My stomach turned. I gave him my business card with my cell number. As I drove away I glanced in my rear view and saw him disdainfully flick the card away.
Fear began gnawing at my gut. I don't know why but I sensed Nate was lying and I was desperate to find out why.
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